


Icarus, Point to the Sun

by aeoleus



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e11 The Day of Black Sun Part 2: The Eclipse, Gen, Hurt Zuko (Avatar), Hurt/Comfort, a prisoner! Zuko production, yeah its whump and what about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeoleus/pseuds/aeoleus
Summary: Zuko tries.Agni, he tries. Uncle wants so desperately for him to do the right thing, and he wants to, he does, he does, he does-So when the Water Tribe girl looks at him with wild eyes, begging for help, and Azula raises one eyebrow with a sneer, Zuko chooses.Azula’s scream of anger when he blasts a fireball in her direction is almost worth the twenty Dai Li agents that immediately surround him.(or: Zuko is taken prisoner by Azula in the catacombs. Turns out, being kept miles away from the sun isn't so great for your bending.)
Relationships: Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 117
Kudos: 2305
Collections: Koi’s atla fic recs





	Icarus, Point to the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi!!
> 
> Many thanks to my beta @agentcalliope (ao3 and tumblr!!) 
> 
> enjoy :)

Zuko tries. 

Agni, he tries. Uncle wants so desperately for him to do the right thing, and he wants to, he does, he does, he does- 

So when the Water Tribe girl looks at him with wild eyes, begging for help, and Azula raises one eyebrow with a sneer, Zuko chooses. 

Azula’s scream of anger when he blasts a fireball in her direction is almost worth the twenty Dai Li agents that immediately surround him. The fight isn’t long, not for him. 

“Go!” He shouts at the Water Tribe girl, who’s clutching the corpse of the Avatar close to her chest. “Get out of here! I’ll hold her off!” 

The girl sends him one last look before she disappears, and Azula appears before him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“Oh, Zu-Zu,” she snarls, baring bloody teeth in a cruel imitation of a smile. “you’ve made a huge mistake, brother.” 

* * *

Ozai doesn’t do him the dignity of looking him in the eyes when he sentences him to death for high treason against the Dragon Throne. 

Zuko is dragged deep down into the bowels of the Palace, farther and farther from the sun until he isn’t able to tell if it’s day or night, deep in his chest, and thrown into a metal cell. 

He’s going to be killed, alright, but Ozai wants to make sure he suffers first. 

And no one’s going to argue with Ozai, not even when he sentences his son to death. Especially not when he sentences his son to death. 

Zuko leans his head back against the cold metal wall they’ve chained him to and hopes to Agni that Uncle made it out. 

Or, if he didn’t, that his death was swift and painless. 

* * *

  
  


It’s almost funny, when they come to brand him. 

A guard advances, one hand holding a steady flame, the other holding an iron rod within the fire, and two other guards twist his head to the side and down at an unnatural angle. 

It’s funny, because the guard’s mouth curls into a smile when he presses the white-hot metal to Zuko’s neck, like he expects Zuko to scream, and the smile quickly turns into a confused snarl when Zuko grits his teeth shut and refuses to make a noise, not even when the guard shoves it deeper in, keeps it longer than he should. 

It’s funny that he thinks a mere bit of iron could ever compare to your father burning half of your face off. 

* * *

He feels his chi seeping out of his body like pus from an open wound, like heat to cold stone. 

  
Zuko lies on his back on the floor of the cell, one hand hanging limp from the chain, stares up into the pitch darkness, and wishes he could feel anything other than the gradual loss of his life-fire. 

_The Fire Nation are Agni’s chosen people_ , Zuko remembers being taught in lessons. _And the Royal Family are held above all else, as direct descendants of the spirit herself._

Zuko holds up one shaky hand and tries, focuses _so hard_ , to get just a single flame. 

Nothing. 

Firebenders aren’t supposed to burn, and half of his face was used as kindling; firebenders are the only benders who can produce their own element, and Zuko can’t get a puff of smoke. 

_“_ If this is how you treat your chosen people, your children,” Zuko says, and heaves a hysterical laugh as tears run down his cheeks. “Then I don’t want to know how you treat your enemies.”

Agni doesn’t respond.

* * *

Zuko wakes up screaming the next day. 

No one comes to check on him.

He screams and screams and screams until his throat is raw and blood mixes with his saliva. 

The guard who brings him his one meal a day kneels next to him and turns him over, presumably to check if he’s still alive. 

“It’s gone,” he whispers, guttural, and the guard frowns. 

“What?”

“I can’t feel the sun.” He laughs, and chokes on his own blood. “I can’t feel anything at all.” 

* * *

He stops eating. 

He huddles himself into a corner and waits for death to take him. There isn’t a point. There’s not even a point in thinking about it. To decide that he wants to die would imply that he is still alive, or that is he worth considering worthy of a choice. It’s just what _is._

“Oh, Prince Zuko.” Uncle says, sitting across from him. “Child, why won’t you eat?” 

“I can’t feel the sun, Uncle.” Zuko says. “I failed you. I can’t feel the sun.” 

Uncle reaches out to touch him. Zuko can’t feel any of his hands' warmth. 

“Eat, my nephew.” Uncle says softly, and when Zuko blinks, he’s gone. 

* * *

  
  


Guards come in every once in a while. 

Zuko mouths off, if he can, and the guards beat him, to prove they can. 

He’s not a prince anymore. 

He’s not even a person. 

* * *

Uncle shows up every once in a while. It’s nice, in a weird way, to have company while he waits for death. 

He just wishes it would come sooner. 

* * *

They stop giving him water at some point, and if that isn’t the _funniest_ part of all of this.

Ozai cannot deign to give his son a quick death, even that mercy is too small. Zuko is instead to waste away under the palace until nothing remains but thin skin stretched over brittle bone, which will be thrown into a mass grave and promptly forgotten, his name struck from the records. Zuko can’t bring himself to care. 

Maybe Mom is in the spirit world.

Maybe she’ll still love him. 

* * *

His cell creaks open and light pours in. It takes tremendous effort for Zuko to lift his head, and when he does, he’s met with Uncle, kneeling in front of him. 

“Again?” He manages. Uncle rarely shows up more than once every few days, and he had already appeared, only a few hours ago, to admonish him for giving up. 

But Uncle just looks confused, instead of sad, when he kneels in front of him. 

“Zuko?” Uncle says softly. “Can you hear me?” 

And then Uncle touches him, and his hand is-

his hand is _warm_ -

* * *

There is only one thought on Iroh’s mind when he breaks out of his prison cell, wrapping his hair up in a quick bun and slipping through his destroyed bars. 

His nephew. 

His nephew, who he last saw being dragged away from him, eyes wide with terror, but brows set and determined, like he didn’t regret his decision, not for a moment. 

Iroh had gotten fed information as often as his informants could swing it, slipping in rushed, hurried details about Zuko’s status in between extra bowls of rice. 

_Zuko’s being held under the palace,_ she whispers, _and I brought you some jasmine tea._

 _Get up, old man,_ he yells, _and, t_ _hey’ve branded him high traitor. The execution hasn’t yet been scheduled._

 _He’s lost his fire_ , she says quietly, and her eyes are sorrowful as she doesn’t even bother masking it with a meal or punishment of some kind. _He’s stopped eating. The guards don’t think he’ll make it to his execution._

That, more than any other motivation- not the White Lotus, not Ba Sing Se, not even the fate of the world, is what pushes Iroh out of his prison cell, eyes red with rage, and out into the inner Caldera. 

Just as he was told, the Avatar has put together an invasion force that’s pushed all the way to the inner city. 

His informants have commandeered an air balloon and left it on the edge of the Caldera. Iroh goes in the opposite direction and surrenders himself, hands out, to the first Water Tribe warrior he sees. 

“My name is Iroh. I need to speak to the Avatar.” 

“Iroh.” The warrior spits out his name as though it’s poison in his mouth, and shoves the butt of his spear into Iroh’s neck, forcing him down. “You’re a _firebender-”_

“Yes.” Iroh admits, head bowed. “But, please, I beg of you, I mean you no harm. Please, tell the Avatar this is about Prince Zuko.” 

“Tulok?” A young boy’s voice calls. “Who is that?” 

“A firebender, Sokka, stay back!”

“Wait, is that _Uncle_? Tulok, let him up!” 

Iroh knows that voice. He raises his head to find a young girl with milky eyes, dressed in earth greens, kneeling in front of him, one hand held out. 

“Now, what were you saying about Sparky?” She asks. 

* * *

It doesn’t take much convincing. 

“I’m going with Uncle.” Toph says resolutely. The Avatar has an odd look on his round face, and the Water Tribe girl seems utterly conflicted. 

  
“We need to go, Toph.” She says, wringing her hands. “They know we’re here, and we need to get out! How are you going to help Uncle? We can’t wait for you-” 

“I have a balloon.” Iroh interrupts. “Forgive me, but every minute we spend discussing this is another minute my nephew’s life is in mortal danger. I need help, but if you’re not inclined to provide, even after my nephew sacrificed himself for you- then I need to go and get him myself.” 

“No! I’m coming.” Toph stomps her foot, and the rocks around them shake. “I’ll find a way, Katara, I don’t care. Zuko helped us, we should return the favor!” 

“I will take her wherever you are, you have my solemn promise.” Iroh says, and Toph flings a hand at him. 

“He’s not lying! He hasn’t lied once!” 

“Fine!” Katara turns away. “Just- be safe. Please.” 

“I will keep her as safe as I am able.” Iroh says gravely, and Toph cracks her knuckles. 

  
“Let’s go get him, Uncle.” She says. 

* * *

According to Iroh’s informant, Zuko’s cell is in the deepest parts of the holdings underneath the palace, so far down that the closest windows are at least ten stories up. Iroh suppresses shudders as they move down the stairs and Agni’s light falls farther away from him, and becomes more and more convinced that his informant did not have faulty information. 

How cruel, how predictable, of Ozai, to keep his son in cells meant to only be used for firebenders capable of mass destruction. 

“There’s only one heartbeat,” Toph confirms as they draw down a row of cells. “It’s really weak, though.” 

“I am sure his time in prison has not been easy on my nephew,” Iroh says. 

“There,” Toph stops in front of a door, plants her feet, and shoves the metal bars aside as though they’re mere paper. 

A dark-haired figure is huddled in the back corner of the pitch-dark room that is without a sleeping mat or any evidence of food or water. The figure turns its head slowly, and Iroh is suddenly staring into the owlish eyes of his nephew, deep-set and surrounded by dark circles, in a skeletal face. 

“Again?” Zuko says, and his voice can’t even be described as hoarse. Every syllable grates as it exits his mouth, as though he’s gargled hot coals, bar any water after to soothe the burn. 

“Zuko,” Iroh says softly, kneeling down in front of the boy. “Can you hear me?” 

Zuko blinks up at him, one bony hand shielding his eyes from the sudden light. His pale skin is nearly translucent, and _Agni help him-_ purpling bruises cover him- his wrists, his cheekbone, an undeniable hand around his neck. 

Iroh hasn’t felt a rush of rage and grief this intense since he sat in the Agni Kai chambers, eyes closed, and listened to Zuko’s blood-curdling screams. 

“You’re not real.” Zuko says, and he sounds so sure. “You can’t be real.” 

“I’m real, my dear boy, I’m so sorry it took me so long to get to you-“

“You’re not real,” Zuko insists, voice raising. 

There’s a shout down the hall, and Toph quirks her head towards it. 

“We need to move, Uncle.” She says. 

“I know.” Iroh says. Zuko is still shrinking back from him, and they’re running out of time. 

“I love you, child.” Iroh tells him, and sends a quick prayer up to Agni, begging for pre-emptive forgiveness, before he presses quick fingers in succession along several points of Zuko’s neck and shoulders, and the boy goes limp in his arms. 

“Did you _chi block_ him?” Toph gasps. 

“Of a sort.” Iroh says grimly. 

A quick blast of concentrated heat breaks the chains holding him to the wall, and it’s far too easy for Iroh to pick him up. He feels every rib, every knob of his spine, through the coarse prison tunic, and swallows the wave of nausea that rises up. 

* * *

The balloon is exactly where his informant said it would be, and it’s almost too easy to slip out of the long-forgotten tunnels into the rocks of the outer Caldera, Zuko tight in his arms and Toph at his back.

Iroh lays him gently down on the floor of the basket, and in the harsh returning sunlight, it’s impossible to deny the damage that’s been wrought on his nephew. He swallows back his tears and his rage, grabs the blanket from the stowed pack, and tucks it around him, as if one soft thing will make up for two months of pain.

It’s the only thing he can do. 

Other than swear, grave, on his own head, that no more harm will befall this child so long as Iroh still has fire in his veins. 

* * *

The Western Air Temple is abandoned. 

  
This is good for their purposes, yes- Aang was completely convinced no one, not even the Fire Nation, would be able to find them under this cliff. 

But it also means that everything echoes down the long, dusty hallways, every sound a thousand times amplified, and Katara isn’t sure that the people that were murdered in this stone temple all those years ago have really left yet. 

  
So when there’s a hoarse shout from the stairs, long after Aang has fallen asleep curled up next to her, and Sokka has gone quiet, eyes up at the moon, Katara is half-convinced it’s a spirit, come to seek some misplaced revenge. 

The three figures emerging out of the darkness, one’s face wide with desperation, the body in its arms skeletal and limp, do nothing to assuage her fears. 

But then Toph yells, “KATARA!”, and she shakes herself, carefully moves Aang’s head out of her lap, and sprints over to them. 

Iroh has carefully laid the body in his arms on the ground and is arranging blankets around him, when she slides into a kneeling position besides him. 

“Please,” he says, hoarse. “help him.” 

Katara holds her breath and pulls the blankets away. 

It’s Zuko. 

Or rather, it’s something that used to be Zuko. He’s far skinnier than the last time Katara saw him in the catacombs, all horribly pale skin and bones sticking out in uncomfortable places. Bruises mark his arms and neck, and his long hair hangs loose and matted about his face. He’s unconscious, and a fever heat rises off his forehead.

He looks half-dead. Katara pushes down a wave of nausea and rolls up her sleeves. 

“What- what happened to him?” She asks, forcing her tone to remain clinical. 

Iroh shakes his head. “My informant was right. Ozai had him imprisoned. I doubt he’s seen the light of day in months.” 

Katara’s hands still. “His _father?”_ She asks incredulously.

To understand that Ozai is a ruthless dictator who would stop at nothing to own the world, even if it meant setting it up in flames, is one thing- but to think that this is how he would treat his own children, his own flesh and blood-

Iroh turns and fixes her with a dead stare that chills her down to her bones. 

“I am not sure,” he says in a flat tone, “how to help you understand that Ozai cares for no one but himself, and that his children are nothing but tools to power for him.” 

Katara swallows. Eyes the scar that looks black and malformed in contrast to Zuko’s white-pale skin. Understands a truth about the world she never wanted to have to acknowledge. She drops to her knees and unscrews her water skin. 

“I’ll do everything I can.” She promises, and she means it. 

* * *

It’s too cold for Zuko, with the fever rising from his skin, to stay out, even by the fire, so Katara helps Iroh move Zuko inside to a small cell. 

Iroh starts a fire close to his unconscious nephew, tucks the extra furs Katara produced from their packs around him, and waits. 

* * *

Zuko is too hot.

Something coarse-warm is rubbing against his neck, and someone is mumbling. When he opens his eyes- reluctantly, for what is there to see?- he finds Uncle, kneeling in front of him. 

“I miss you,” he manages to say despite how rough his throat is. Uncle’s head whips up, and he doesn’t look how he usually looks, perpetually dressed in Earth greens, a smile wrinkling his eyes. 

“Oh, my dear, dear child. I missed you so much,” Uncle says, and he usually doesn’t say anything like that, either. 

“It hurts.” Zuko says next. 

“What does, Zuko?”

Doesn’t Uncle already know? That his chi lines are deadened? That there are handprints on his neck and his chest and any other area the guards could reach? That he can barely breathe for fear of a broken rib, for fear that he won’t be able to take another? 

“Everything.” Zuko says, and there’s a warm hand on his cold cheek, and he wants to cry, he does, but there’s no water to be found in his body. “Please don’t leave me while I’m still awake.” 

“My sweet boy, why would I ever leave you?” 

Zuko blinks up at Uncle’s blurry face. 

“Because you’re not real.” 

* * *

Zuko falls asleep. Though, perhaps _sleep_ is too generous a term for the hazy unconsciousness that overtakes his nephew in fits and starts. Zuko curls up on his side in his sleep, his head nearly to his knees, his hands over his eyes. His bedraggled hair falls away from his neck, exposing the large, scabbed-over character branded into his pale skin. 

Iroh shoves his hand into his mouth to keep from crying out, but a gasp comes from behind him, anyways.

Katara is standing in the doorway with a basin of water, and her eyes are wide with horror, fixed directly on the brand. 

“What _is_ that?” She says, her tone choked. “Who did that to him?” 

“Me.” Iroh manages to say. 

“ _What?”_ Katara yells, and Zuko immediately flinches in his sleep. Iroh places a soft hand over his boy’s ears, and Katara claps a hand over her mouth.

“You did _what_?” She whisper-shouts. “How could you have-” 

“I didn’t do it, physically.” Iroh amends. “But I may as well have. I’ve failed him. I’ve failed him so many-” 

“Iroh.” Katara interrupts, her face immediately softened. “It’s not your fault. He made a decision.” 

“I appreciate your kindness, Master Katara, but I’m afraid it is. There isn’t much you can say to convince me otherwise.” Iroh runs his fingers through Zuko’s hair, tries not to flinch when dried blood comes away in his hands. “I should have protected him, and I didn’t.” 

“You can make it up to him now.” Katara says. Her hands land soft on top of Iroh’s, then pull them away from Zuko’s head. “Let me try and heal him again.” 

Iroh swallows hard and nods, moving away so that Katara has access, but careful to stay close enough that if Zuko wakes, he’ll see him immediately. Katara’s face turns clinical as she sweeps Zuko’s hair out of the way and presses a small disk of water to the half-healed burn. 

“What does it mean?” Katara asks, after a few minutes. “The brand.” 

“It designates him as a High Traitor against the Dragon Throne.” Iroh says. “I received a similar one, myself.” 

  
He pulls back his sleeve to show Katara the scarred character on his wrist. He had been so careful to clean it and keep it dry. It is obvious, from the red tendrils shooting out from Zuko’s brand, the pus seeping out, the broken skin, that he hadn’t had the opportunity to do the same. 

Katara frowns, looking back and forth from Zuko’s to Iroh’s brand. 

“But why is his so _big?_ And why is it on his neck?” 

Iroh stares down at the deadened black skin, so close to his nephew’s burn. 

“Zuko was marked for death.” Iroh says quietly. 

The water falls out of Katara’s hands and soaks Zuko’s bedding. 

“He- death?” Katara chokes out. 

“Yes.” Iroh says. “It’s why it’s so large and on his neck. So even if he escaped, there’d be no mistaking him for anything but a traitor sentenced to death.” 

“For helping us. In the catacombs.” 

“Yes.” Iroh confirms. 

Katara shoves her hands into her eyes, and Iroh stays quiet as she seems to take several deep breaths. 

“I’m so sorry, Iroh.” Katara sounds close to tears. “I-I didn’t know they would do that- I would have tried harder to get him out, I would have-” 

“He made a decision.” Iroh interrupts, though he doesn’t believe it himself. “Right?” 

Katara stares at him, then pulls up the water again. 

  
“Right.” She says. 

* * *

Zuko awakes to sunlight. 

It splays across his face, warm and galvanizing, and for a second, Zuko just blinks, and takes in the jarring heat, and doesn’t even feel every ache and pain, the soreness of his wrists, his ribs, his head. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” 

Zuko jerks his head to the side, jagged nails digging instinctively into his wrist, ready to bite back at whatever guard has come to torment him today. 

But there’s no guard. 

And the sunlight continues across the room.

And there’s just a young boy, with a shaved head, blue tattoos, and bright clothes, sitting cross-legged on the ground and staring at him. 

“Are you alright?” The boy- the ghost?- asks. Is he a figment of his imagination to torture him? Did Ozai finally capture the Avatar and send the child in here to die with him? 

Isn’t the Avatar already dead?

“Zuko?” The - whatever it is- asks. “Are you alright?” 

Zuko can’t respond, because his throat feels like it’s made of shredded glass and coals, and the second he speaks, he’s sure he’s going to shatter this illusion of _warmth_ across his face, soft blankets tucked around him, and he’s in no hurry to make that happen. 

“Iroh!” The boy springs to his feet. “IROH, HE’S AWAKE!” 

“ _FINALLY!”_ A boy’s voice comes from far away. “We’re coming, Aang, sit tight!” 

Zuko blinks, and then Uncle is in the doorway, surrounded by children dressed in blues and greens and bright, bright oranges. Uncle is clothed in prison reds and blacks, but his hair is clean and pulled back in a top-knot, and the shocked look on his face is so deeply familiar, so _jarring-_

“Uncle.” Zuko whispers, though it hurts. 

“Oh, my dear boy.” Uncle says. “Oh, my dear, dear boy.” 

Uncle is by his side and on his knees in a second, pressing Zuko’s hand to his forehead, his warm forehead, and he’s breathing unevenly, like he’s about to cry, and this has never happened before, and the sunshine is still soft on his skin, and the blankets are still tucked around him, and there’s even a pillow under his head, and-

“Is this real?” Zuko manages to ask, though he’s still so sure this will be the tipping point, and the next time he blinks, he’ll be shackled to a wall, absolute darkness waiting to envelop him. 

Uncle is definitely crying. He sniffles and leans down, one hand settling around Zuko’s cheekbone, and Zuko hasn’t been touched without it hurting in months. _In years._

“It’s real, my nephew. You’re safe. You’ll be okay.” Uncle says.

Well, that doesn’t sound right. But Uncle is running his hand over his hair and murmuring something, quiet and reassuring, and the sun is still warm on his skin, so Zuko closes his eyes again and lets it wash over him. 

* * *

When he wakes again, it’s dark. The moon has risen in the small window above him. Zuko turns his head, painfully, slowly, and finds Uncle sitting next to him, arms crossed, head tilted down on his chest.

He’s not moving. 

Zuko's heart begins to pick up a desperate rhythm against his ribs. 

“Uncle.” Zuko tries to say, but it comes out broken and cracked in all the wrong places, and Uncle still doesn’t stir. “Uncle!” 

Uncle startles like he’s been hit and his eyes fly open, fire alight on his hands, before he looks down. His shoulders slump and the flames peter out. 

“Oh, Zuko.” He says. “Do you feel alright?” 

“Uh,” Zuko manages to say, because he’s not really entirely sure he has a body anymore, let alone a body that doesn’t hurt all the time, everywhere. Uncle, luckily, takes that as an answer, and sighs, leaning forward to brush his hair away from his face.

“You should try and rest, nephew.” 

“Where- where are we?” He hasn’t talked so much, these past few months. The words feel foreign in his mouth, all awkward-shaped and too big for his tongue. 

Uncle huffs a chuckle, though he doesn’t look very amused. 

“Back at the Western Air Temple. I brought you here.” 

“Air Temple. And the-” Zuko vaguely remembers a young boy with large gray eyes, no longer wide with fear, but concern. “The Avatar?” 

“Yes.” Uncle confirms. “Avatar Aang and his companions are here as well. They’ve been helping me take care of you.” 

“But, but-” Zuko manages to stutter out, panic spreading in his stomach. Uncle’s eyes grow slightly hard. 

“Your father nearly killed you, Prince Zuko. Are you _truly_ -” 

“No!” Zuko forcefully interrupts his uncle, one hand flying to his chest when something cracks, painful. “No! They’re- if we’re here, they’re in danger-” 

Uncle’s face goes through several emotions that Zuko is too exhausted to try and identify. 

  
“They’ll be alright, Zuko.” Uncle takes his hand and squeezes. “We’re well-hidden, I promise. No one is in immediate danger.” 

“You’re sure.” 

“I’m sure.” Uncle says. “You should worry about yourself.” 

“Me?” Zuko asks. 

The small, fractured part of him that remembers being eight years old and sick with dragon-pox, Mom at his bedside, helping the physician keep his fever down, reading him his favorite stories, and feels the expanding heat behind his eyes, the way his limbs are leaden, knows what Uncle is talking about. 

The part of him that’s still convinced he’s going to wake up in a cell, thousands of feet underground, isn’t sure. 

“You’re very ill, nephew.” Uncle says. “I am so sorry I didn’t get there sooner.” 

Zuko blinks. _Uncle_ is sorry? 

“Uncle, I-” _Agni,_ his throat hurts. He coughs, hard, and is surprised when it doesn’t spark agonizing pain in his ribs like it usually does. “Uncle, I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?” Uncle repeats. “What could you possibly have to be sorry about?” 

“You- you wanted me to do the right thing.” Zuko says. It hurts like he’s swallowing hot coals, but he presses on. He needs Uncle to know. “I tried, Uncle, I really tried, but I failed you, I’m sorry-” 

“Zuko, Zuko-” Uncle looks horrified. “My dear child, you allowed yourself to be captured. Those children survived, because of _you._ You did the right thing. I’m not mad at you. I could never be. Zuko, I am _proud_ of you.” 

“Proud?” Zuko echoes. 

“So, so proud.” Uncle confirms. 

“Oh.” 

Zuko allows his head to fall back against the pillow. He wasn’t even aware he’d been holding his neck so tensely. 

“I don’t feel good.” He whispers. 

“I know.” Uncle says. “It’s alright, Zuko. Sleep. I’m not going anywhere.” 

* * *

The Water Tribe girl is standing in his doorway. She’s holding a bowl of something that’s making Zuko’s stomach turn, but she won’t go away, and there’s a terrifyingly determined look on her face that’s making him scared to ask. 

Uncle isn’t here, but he had woken Zuko to tell him that he was simply stepping outside to wash up, and that he’d be back soon, so Zuko isn’t too worried. 

“You need to eat.” The Water Tribe girl announces. “And I need to heal you.” 

“Not hungry.” Zuko mumbles.

“Yeah, because you’re _sick._ ” The girl sits down in front of him. “Can you sit up?” 

“I just said I’m not hungry.” Zuko even manages to snap. The girl doesn’t look at all fazed at the heat in his tone, and just puts down the bowl and tugs on his pillows to rearrange them against the wall. She pulls him up, quickly enough that it makes him dizzy, but gently enough it barely hurts, and shoves the bowl of soup in his lap.

Zuko stares down at it while the Water Tribe girl busies herself with a basin of water. It looks like a simple broth, but the smell of it is overpowering, and his hands shake so violently successfully lifting the spoon to his mouth takes several tries. The second the salty, meaty broth hits his tongue, his stomach immediately revolts, and Zuko chokes as the broth comes right back out. 

The Water Tribe girl hisses a curse in a language Zuko doesn’t understand and immediately pulls the bowl out of his hands. Zuko doesn’t _mean_ to flinch when she tugs the bowl, he really doesn’t. He _knows_ she (probably) won’t hurt him. He knows. Uncle said he was just outside, and that he’ll be back soon.

But he flinches anyway. 

The girl stares at him, and at the bowl now in her hands. 

“It’s alright.” She says softly. 

“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” 

“No, no, you’re okay!” The girl says. “It was just an accident, and-” She stops, puts the bowl down and without asking, bends the broth out of his filthy tunic. 

“When did you last eat?” She asks. It’s almost painful to hear the worry in her voice. 

“I-I don’t know.” He admits. 

“Have you- have you had anything to drink?” 

Zuko shrugs. His mouth is dry. He thinks he vaguely remembers Uncle forcing him to drink something, hours ago, but there’s no way to tell if it’s real or not. Zuko is still half-convinced he’s going to blink and wake up chained to a wall, all of the warmth and blankets and soft touches fading away like the cruel hallucination they are. 

“Yeah.” She worries her lip. “Yeah, that’s on me, then. Sokka!” 

  
The Water Tribe boy who looks about his age appears in the doorway, boomerang and a whetting stone in his hands. Zuko remembers that boomerang being aimed directly at his face, the boy’s blue eyes narrowed in anger. But the boy looks relaxed now, even giving Zuko a little nod. 

“Hm?”

“Can you get Iroh and a cup for me?” 

“Yeah. Is everything-”

“It’s okay.” 

The boy- Sokka- nods and disappears. 

“If you haven’t eaten, we need to start you really slow.” She explains. “But I can heal you in the meantime.” 

“Oh.” Zuko says. His hands are still shaking, but when the girl moves forward, he doesn’t flinch. “Thank you?” 

“You’re welcome.” 

The girl presses a cool disk of water against the brand on his neck. Zuko hadn’t even realized it was hurting him, till the pain is suddenly taken away. 

“I’m not going to be able to heal it completely.” The girl says, after a few minutes of silence. “It’s already scarring.” 

“That’s alright.” Zuko says. 

The girl takes a deep breath. 

“They really- they really branded you? Like, held you down and-” 

“Wasn’t the first time.” Zuko says absently, and is surprised when the girl intakes a sharp breath. 

“I’m really sorry.” She says. 

“What?” Zuko blinks. “Why are you sorry?” 

“That that happened to you.” She says. 

“Oh.” 

Zuko isn’t really sure what to do with that information, so he just stays quiet as the girl works. 

“I never had the chance to thank you for what you did.” She says. “You gave us time to escape. Aang was…” She trails off, then seems to steel herself. “Aang was really badly injured. You saved him.” 

“I just did what I could.” Zuko says. “I, uh. I never realized. How young he is.” 

The girl’s lip quirks up. 

“He likes to remind all of us that he’ll be thirteen in the fall, like eight times a day.” 

“He’s not- he’s not even thirteen?” 

“No." 

“He’s a kid.” Zuko says, a nauseous, hot wave of guilt rolling over him as he remembers being so determined to take the Avatar- this _child-_ in chains to his father. 

To his father, who branded him and sentenced him to death. 

Twice. 

The girl shrugs, and renews the water on his neck. 

“So are you.” She says. “So am I. So are all of us.” 

“I guess.” Zuko mumbles. His skin feels hot and dry. 

  
He wonders when Uncle’s coming back. 

* * *

“Sparky!” A young girl crows, flopping down in front of him. She’s dressed in dark earth greens, and her eyes are clouded over, though she seems to have no problem moving around. “You’re finally awake!” 

Zuko stares at her. 

“Have we-” he clears his throat. “Have we met?” 

“Well, not really.” The girl frowns. “But Uncle never stops talking about you. It’s kind of annoying, really. But also really sweet.” 

“Uh.” Zuko says verbosely, because he hasn’t talked to this many people in months, let alone this many people who seem to _want_ to talk to him. 

“Anyways, I’m Toph.” The girl says. “Toph Beifong.” 

“ _Beifong?_ ” Zuko’s eyebrows shoot up, and he forgets for a moment that every muscle in his body hurts as he darts up. He groans as his ribs immediately remind him of his hubris. 

  
“Take it easy there, buddy.” Toph scrambles forward, her little hands carefully pushing him back. “Uncle’ll kill me if you get hurt. And yes, _that_ Beifong family, and no, I don’t wanna talk about it.” 

Zuko huffs a laugh and is so surprised by it leaving his mouth he falls silent for a moment. But Toph doesn’t seem bothered by this. She simply sits back, idly pulling up pebbles from the ground and rotating them in her hand. 

“Why are you here?” The question leaves Zuko’s mouth before he can stop it, and he cringes when he realizes how impolite that must sound, especially to another noble. But Toph just shrugs and stretches. 

“Thought you might need some company. And also, Aang is too much of a wimp to ask you what he’s supposed to ask you.” 

“Ask me?” Zuko repeats, as his confusion just grows. 

“You’re supposed to be his firebending teacher.” Toph says bluntly, and the knots in Zuko’s stomach grow. “He’s pretty insistent about it at this point.” 

“I-” Zuko stares down at his hands, which are filthy, his nails nearly black, and wills something, anything, to appear on his palm. 

Nothing happens. Zuko can’t even bring himself to be surprised. 

“I lost my bending.” He admits quietly. “The Avatar should find another teacher.” 

Toph doesn’t look at all surprised or concerned about this. 

“That’s alright.” She says cheerfully, and immediately pulls one of Uncle’s bags towards her and takes out a tightly-rolled scroll. “Hey, Uncle told me you know _Love Amongst the Dragons,_ like, backwards and forwards.” 

“Oh! I, uh, I haven’t read it in years-” Zuko lies as Toph shoves the scroll in his hands. 

“C’mon, Sparky, you wouldn’t deny a poor blind girl, would you?” She bats her big, milky-blue eyes, and Zuko has to hold back another laugh. 

“I feel like you’re not going to take no for an answer.” He says. 

“That’s correct.” She says, and leans back, a block of stone appearing to support her. “Get going, Sparky. Chop-chop.” 

* * *

  
  


“Are you any good at Pai Sho?” 

The Avatar plops himself down in front of Zuko’s bedroll, and Zuko has to force himself from wincing at the loud noise, as the Avatar slaps a hand on the ground and raises a rudimentary Pai Sho set from the stone. 

“Uh,” Zuko says. 

His throat feels a little better. Uncle had forced some water into him yesterday, and Zuko’s stomach had stopped trying to reject it after the fourth round. In fact, Uncle had helped him sit up, arranged the blankets across his waist, and Zuko hadn’t felt like he was going to pass out. 

Well, he hadn’t, a while ago. But Uncle is asleep now, only a few feet away, and his face looks so drawn, the circles under his eyes bruises. Zuko wouldn’t wake him for his life. 

“I bet you are.” The Avatar sighs. “Iroh’s really good. I’ve never been able to beat him.” 

“Me either.” Zuko admits.

“Whatever, let’s play anyways.” The Avatar says determinedly, and Zuko’s confusion only grows. Didn’t Toph tell him?

“I lost my bending. I can’t teach you.” Zuko says. 

“Yeah?” The Avatar blinks. 

“So, why- why are you here?” 

“To play Pai Sho?” The Avatar raises an eyebrow and grins. “I need to get better to beat your Uncle.” 

Zuko stares at him as he re-arranges the board in front of him. A small, very distant part of him wonders if Father would- if he managed to capture the boy, and- 

But the Avatar- Aang, his name is _Aang_ \- has his nose scrunched up as he stares at the board in front of him and he’s so far from losing the baby fat on his cheeks Zuko wonders how he didn’t see it before. His robes- bright oranges, yellows, reds, are well-worn, but clearly taken care of. Blue thread marks carefully-repaired rips, and Zuko is suddenly, painfully, aware, that this child is sitting cross-legged in this forsaken sepulcher, this desecrated holy place, with no memorial for the thousands of his murdered people, living beings made ash, but the dust and bone-grit that lines the floors. 

“I’m gonna kick your butt.” Aang announces, and when he grins at Zuko, a soft warm breeze ruffles his hair. 

“Probably.” Zuko says and he’s not really sure why tears spring to his eyes when he smiles back- a hesitant, painful thing, like his face doesn’t remember how. 

* * *

Iroh is awoken on their fifth night at the Western Air Temple to soft whimpers. 

Zuko used to yell in his sleep. He would wake the crewmen, who would in turn wake Iroh, who would in turn sit on his nephew’s futon and sit quiet and steady until Zuko caught his breath and stopped looking like he was one loud sound away from diving off the deck of the ship. 

He stopped yelling a long time ago. 

So Iroh awakes now to quiet, sharp gasps, and turns over to find Zuko wide-awake, staring at the ceiling with asymmetrically-blown eyes

“Prince Zuko,” Iroh says, and crawls over, shooting a quick flame to the lantern as he goes. 

Zuko’s bare, bruised chest is rising and falling rapidly as though he’s just run through the most advanced katas possible, his hands grasping the furs white-knuckled. There’s a blanket around his legs Iroh certainly didn’t place- a dark green, silky and heavy. 

“My nephew,” Iroh says, and moves as slowly and deliberately as he can when he places a steady hand on Zuko’s wrist, pulling it from the sheets. The dirt and sweat and blood has dried into patches on his nephew’s pale skin, and when it flakes off, it reveals streaks of red irritation underneath. “Breathe.” 

“I- can’t-” Zuko gasps out, his eyes rolling back, tears gathering at the corners. “Uncle, Uncle, please, Uncle, please-” 

“Oh, my dear boy, you’re alright.” Iroh closes his eyes tight, and holds on ever tighter to Zuko’s hand, feeling the thready pulse beneath his fingers. “I’m right here. You’re alright. You’re alright.” 

“You’re- you’re not _real-”_

“I am real, Zuko. I promise.” 

“No, no- _Uncle_ \- he’s going to kill me, Uncle, _please-_ ” 

“Oh, Zuko.” Iroh says softly. “My child. I’m so sorry.” 

Zuko’s gasp of pain as Iroh lifts him from the bed twists his stomach further into knots, but Zuko seems to find some relief, hands fisting into Iroh’s robes, head burrowed between his neck and his shoulder. Iroh runs his fingers through his nephew’s long, bedraggled hair. He keeps one hand firmly between his shaking shoulders. 

“You’re real.” Zuko’s voice cracks. His nails dig into Iroh’s skin. Iroh finds that he couldn’t care less, even when Zuko seems to be drawing blood. 

“I’m real.” Iroh confirms. “I’m not leaving you. Ever again.” 

“Please.” Zuko begs. “Please don’t.” 

“I’m so sorry.” Iroh repeats. “For what you’ve endured, child. Would that I could have taken your place-” 

“ _No_.” Zuko interrupts fiercely, and it’s the most heat Iroh’s felt from him. Zuko shakily pushes away from him. “No. Don’t- don’t say that. I- it was so bad, Uncle. I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t want you down there. I’d rather I-” Zuko takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’d rather I died down there.” 

“Zuko.” Iroh can’t even manage his name without cracking. Those two, broken syllables. “Zuko. I-”

What is he meant to say? To this child, this young man, who’d have endured the hardships of a thousand lifetimes to protect a young savior he didn’t know? How could he possibly convey the depths of the deep, overwhelming affection and utter admiration and terrible fire of regret for this child before him? 

“I’m so proud of you.” He says, instead, though it comes up so very short in the measure of things. “My dear child, my lovely boy. I’m so proud of you.” 

That, of all things, is what breaks him. Zuko sags against him, and it seems to Iroh, allows the full weight of what he has suffered to hit him at once. 

The moon is full and bright, and Iroh stares at it as Zuko weeps. 

“Please,” He whispers to the moon, the stars, the tide she controls. “Help him. Help him to see. To heal.” 

* * *

The Water Tribe boy looks practically identical to his sister. He’s got tanned skin, blue eyes, and a determined look on his face. 

  
“So, this is sort of weird, but sort of not?” The boy offers. “I know we were, like, enemies, but then you saved Aang, and then you guys showed up here, and, uh, well-” The boy rubs the back of his shaven head. “Thank you?” 

“Oh.” Zuko blinks. “You’re- you’re welcome?”

“But still, dude, the stuff you pulled before was, uh, not good. Don’t pull that shit again. I’m serious.” The boy levels him with a cool stare, jaw set, and Zuko swallows thickly. 

“I won’t. I- I was wrong to do everything I did. To you all. And to everyone else. I’m sorry.” Zuko bows his head. It hurts less, now, to move, what with Katara healing him daily and Uncle forcing tea and broth in him. He was even able to walk across the room yesterday, though it made his head swim. 

“Hm.” The boy looks him up and down. “Toph’s not here, but you seem pretty sincere to me.” 

“I’m right _here!_ ” Toph’s voice rings from down the hallway, and Zuko has to stop himself from flinching. “Sparky’s not lying, Sokka!” 

“I _got_ that much, Toph.” Sokka grumbles and rolls his eyes. “Anyways. I’m, like, completely determined to not be weird about this. Toph and Katara sort of set up a bathroom a few doors down. I thought you might want to, uh-?” 

Zuko glances down. He hasn’t even given two thoughts to the filth he’s been living in for months. His hand flies to his hair, and he grimaces when it comes away rife with dirt and dried blood. 

“Yes.” He says immediately. “Please.”  
  
Sokka grins at him. 

* * *

The path from his room down the hallway is arduous, even with Sokka supporting him with every step, and Zuko tries not to look so visibly relieved when Sokka pulls away a makeshift curtain and deposits him on a chair by the wall. A stone bath has been raised from the floor, and steam rises from the water. Sokka disappears down the hall and comes back with a bundle of dark cloth in his arms, a white bar on top. 

“Uh, I didn’t have any spare robes, but Haru and Katara went to town a few days ago, and they found these?” Sokka unfolds the cloth to reveal a set of dark robes, black and maroon red. The material is clearly somewhat rough-hewn, but _anything_ is better than the rags that only just barely surround his body. “And, uh, this is just seal-fat soap. Not anything fancy, but I thought you might want something to-”  
  
“Sokka.” Zuko surprises himself and interrupts him. “Thank you. Really.” 

Sokka blinks. 

“Oh. You’re welcome.” He says. “Do you- do you think you’ll need help?” 

Zuko winces. He barely knows this boy. But he can barely move, and Sokka’s look is practiced casual, even as his cheeks heat up, and he brought Zuko clean robes and soap, and honestly, if he tries to drown Zuko in the bath- 

Well, Zuko would deserve it. 

  
“Probably.” He admits, and feels his cheeks flare too. 

“Cool.” Sokka agrees. “Cool, cool, cool.” 

* * *

“ _Tui,_ dude, you look like a walking punching bag.”  
  


There’s a rough swipe across his back, and Zuko bites back a groan as Sokka hits an open bruise. 

  
“They’re not exactly kind to traitors.” He grits out as Sokka, much softer this time, washes around his brand. 

“But weren’t you still a Prince?” Sokka asks as he takes down Zuko's hair from the ponytail Uncle had put it into this morning. 

“No.” Zuko says, and is internally so grateful that Sokka is keeping up conversation as he lathers up his scalp, as the water turns muddy around him, that he forgets to not answer him. “No, they probably stripped me of my title.” 

“Oh.” Warm water pours over his head. “How do you know?” 

“It’s against the law to harm a member of the Royal Family.” Zuko stares out the window at the high sun. 

The water stops for a minute. Zuko feels Sokka’s stare on the back of his head, at the edges of his scar on his neck, and refuses to look back. 

“Oh.” Sokka repeats, and when he begins washing Zuko’s hair again, it’s much gentler. 

* * *

The absolute luxury of hot water, soap, and scrubbing his skin raw is almost unparalleled to clean clothes. Zuko is sitting on his bedding and struggling to tie his tunic when Uncle appears in the doorway, arms laden with a basket of vegetables. 

“Oh!” Uncle puts down the basket and kneels down, tying the knot for him. “How do you feel?” 

“Not disgusting.” Zuko admits. Sokka had kept his promise and made it as not weird as he could, and Zuko is willing to admit that the embarrassment was a small price to pay for feeling human again. 

“Hm.” Uncle looks at him, expression unreadable. “Allow me to do your hair, Prince Zuko.” 

“Uncle?” 

But Uncle ignores him and immediately procures a comb from one of his bags. He steadily and gently works out every snare and knot and snarl in his hair. When he’s done, he places the comb down, and Zuko can feel him gathering the top-half of his hair into a bun. Something slides into place around it with a decisive click, and Zuko reaches up to feel a solid band around his hair, wings ascending on the sides.  
  


“Uncle?” He chokes out again. He’s never been allowed to wear a top-knot. Not once. 

“The Crown Prince’s hair-piece.” Uncle smiles at him, though his eyes are wet. “It belonged to your great-grandfather, Sozin.” 

“But-” 

“And he gave it to your other great-grandfather, Roku.” Uncle finishes. 

“Roku.” Zuko repeats. “Avatar Roku?” 

Uncle nods. “I meant to tell you when the time was right. Your lineage is not only destruction and death, Prince Zuko. Roku’s blood runs golden through your veins. As you’ve already proven.” 

“Uncle.” Is the only thing Zuko can manage to say. “I, I-” 

“If you’re about to say you’re not worthy of it, save your breath.” Uncle says firmly. 

So, instead, Zuko feels the solid, curved lines of the hair-piece, the stone-washed soft fabric of the tunic he was given, and allows himself to wonder if, perhaps, things might turn out all right.   
  


* * *

  
“Sparky!” Toph shakes the walls with every stomp of her foot, but Zuko just rolls over from his nap and glares at her. “Come outside!” 

“Why?” He grumbles. “‘m sleeping.” 

“Well, get up.” There are small, rough hands on his shoulders. “C’mon, Uncle said you should try and get in the sun. Something about you being like a wilted little flower.” 

“He did _not-“_

“He did, actually.” Aang appears in the doorway. “But no one laughed, I promise!”  
  
Zuko wrinkles his nose but can’t bring himself to actually scowl at Aang. 

“You’re so _heavy,_ ” Toph complains as she wraps one arm under his shoulder, and Zuko, who knows for a fact the robes he’s wearing are wrapped nearly double-around to fit properly, raises his eyebrow. Aang actually laughs and takes his other arm. 

Together, they make the slow trek outside, Zuko only stopping once to catch his breath. Katara and Uncle are bent over a cooking fire, and Uncle waves cheerfully at him, but doesn’t seem inclined to save him from Aang, who is chattering in his ear about dragons. 

Sokka is very seriously sword-fighting a small child wearing a helmet far too big for his head, though they both wield sticks instead of metal. The kid whacks Sokka’s stick out of his hand and jabs him in the stomach, and Sokka falls to the stone ground, gasping dramatically, while the kid giggles and kicks his side. 

“Here.” Aang says, and stops. There’s nothing very special about where they are, somewhat close to the doorway, just stone ground with grass growing through the cracks, but Zuko just sits down where Aang gestures. 

And realizes immediately. 

The rest of the pavilion is covered with a great, vaulted stone ceiling. This small area falls between the ceiling and the building, and sunlight slants through the crack. It falls warm on his skin, and Zuko closes his eyes and tilts his head back so it hits his entire face. 

He breathes, and he breathes, and he breathes. 

The warmth courses through him, and Zuko _breathes_. When he opens his eyes, a small flame rests on his palm. It is weak and thready, and pulses with his breath, but Zuko stares at it all the same. 

Aang is looking at him with an odd expression on his face. He draws his knees to his chest and stares at the flame, too. 

“I thought you lost your bending.” he says softly. 

“I thought I did, too.” Zuko says distantly. The fire jumps and expands across his palm. 

“Maybe you never really lost it.” Toph offers. “Maybe you just thought you did.” 

“Yeah,” Zuko says. “Maybe.” 

The fire goes out, but his skin remains warm, and Uncle’s belly-laugh floats over from where he’s cooking with Katara. 

  
“Are you alright, Zuko?” Aang asks. Zuko picks his head up and gives the Avatar a small smile. 

“I will be.” He says. 

**Author's Note:**

> u can find me at ta1k-less on tumblr, or u can just yell @ me right here! Your choice


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